


The Halls of Awaiting

by starlightwalking



Series: Fëanorian Redemption [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (as prelude to literal rebirth), Afterlife, Angst with a Happy Ending, Back to Middle-Earth Month, Body Horror, Canonical Character Death, Feanorian Week 2020, Fëanturi SU-style fusion for the purpose of reconstructive soul surgery, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Lightly Toasted Amrod, Metaphorical Rebirth, Redemption, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Visions, put him in the fire and pull him right back out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23675974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: The sons of Fëanor must repent before they are redeemed.
Relationships: Fëanturi & Sons of Fëanor, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sons of Fëanor - Relationship
Series: Fëanorian Redemption [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1484228
Comments: 32
Kudos: 122
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month 2020: Endings and Beginnings, Feanorian Week 2020





	The Halls of Awaiting

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, my Fëanorian Week 2020 fic is complete! It only took me uhh... (checks calendar) 3.5 weeks!! Well, better late than never, I suppose :P
> 
> The Fëanorian Week prompts I used for this fic are Fire/Adjusting [Maedhros], Wickedness/Love [Celegorm], Betrayal/Dwarves & Humans [Caranthir], Celebrimbor/Nargothrond [Curufin], and Regrets/Weapons [Ambarussa].  
> The observant among you may have noticed that Maglor, Nerdanel, and Fëanor himself are missing from this list...that's because this fic is about the sons of Fëanor in Mandos after their deaths. I wrote another fic for Maglor [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23436616), and while I didn't really intend it to be for this event, I also recently wrote a Fëanor and Fingolfin fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23645503). Poor Nerdanel is left out...although I did make edits and draw art for each character on their day of the week, which you can check out on [my blog](https://arofili.tumblr.com/tagged/feanorianweek).
> 
> This is ALSO for Back to Middle-earth Month, day 20! I am extremely slowly catching up, lol. The official prompt was "Create a fanwork that is completely or partly set in the afterlife, or that explores beliefs about the afterlife among a culture or group on Arda." I also used the prompts "We can do this, the way we always do things" [Last Line] and "epilogue" [Endings] from the generator.  
> Technically this is an epilogue to canon, but in spirit it's really more of a prologue to my fic [ATATYA](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20398906/chapters/48384556), about the Fëanorians' rebirth. I wanted to explore their time in Mandos and what led them to be re-embodied, and this was the perfect opportunity. This fic is compliant to the canon of that verse, and many things that are only briefly mentioned here are discussed in more detail in ATATYA.
> 
> re: the "Lightly Toasted Amrod" tag: this is as opposed to "Crispy Amrod" where he dies at Losgar. In this verse, Amrod was in the ships while they burned, but he survived and lived until dying at Sirion with Amras.
> 
> This is a gen fic about the Fëanorians & the Fëanturi, but there are some minor/background ships. These are: Amras/OFC (for the story of his wife, see ch4 on of ATATYA); Maedhros/Fingon; implied Caranthir/Haleth; and Celegorm/everyone (including Aredhel, Finrod, Oromë, nameless background characters, and one-sided Dior and Lúthien). This is not compliant with LaCE, but alludes to fanon interpretations of LaCE and my own particular set of headcanons around elvish sex and relationships.
> 
> Content warnings: death (this is an afterlife fic), flashbacks/hallucinations/visions, canon-typical violence/death, self-harm (2nd section), half-cousin incest, the Celegorm and Lúthien situation (no non-con but some bad vibes), canon suicide, some body horror

If he dreamed, it would be in fire.

But the dead do not dream: they do not wake, either. They do not even live.

Yet Amrod experiences something, somehow, and in that way he is consumed in fire. The smoke chokes his spirit, sends him into dizzy darkness, clouds the tattered remains of his mind. He relives his death again and again, as much as a disembodied fëa can (re)live, and as much as that dreadful night on the ships counted as his death.

Yes, he had burned; beyond repair, some may have claimed. But Amrod had _lived_ , had survived and healed, though his visage was mottled with burn scars. He and Maedhros would joke about their disfigurements in a way that unsettled their other brothers, even Amras. But for Fëanáro's eldest and youngest sons, there was no way forward by dwelling on grief and pain.

Amrod had known that then, but now in his death it is confirmed. He burns, and burns, and burns: the moment where Pityo drags him out of the water and Kano sings him from the brink of death never comes. No, in this version of the tale, Amrod burns alive until only his unmoored fëa remains.

He wonders, distantly, as the process begins again, if this is a punishment. For his deeds at Alqualondë, at Doriath, at Sirion. But he had paid in blood for each of those already: for Alqualondë with his flesh at Losgar, for Doriath with three brothers dear, for Sirion with his own life, or what remained of it.

So he laughs amid the flames, crying out through cracking lips: "I repent! I repent! Is that your wish? For Fëanáro's sons to grovel at your feet? Would all Beleriand have been better without me—without another Kinslayer to guard against Morgoth? Tell me, Námo, is it a better Song if I perished at Losgar, or at Sirion? Is it better if I left my twin alone, or hunted beside him? Well?"

But it is not Námo who appears before him, a torrent of tears dousing the eternal flame. It is Nienna, his sister, and as she weeps upon his fëa he gasps. In Mandos one does not have a hröa, not in the traditional sense, but Amrod looks down at his ghostly palms and watches as Nienna's tears wash away the ash, the burns, revealing new flesh, pink and raw.

"My lady?" he whispers, and realizes that it is his tears, also, that fall upon his fingertips.

"Dost thou regret the life thou led?" she asks, her voice an echo of lamentation, her thousand eyes overflowing with mournful tears.

Amrod does not hesitate. "No," he says. "I can never regret a life with Ambarussa at my side—only a death without him."

"Dost thou mourn, son of Fëanáro?" Nienna asks.

He bows what head he has. "Yes," he admits. "I know our deeds were cruel, and wrong. But—"

"Wouldst thou retrace thy steps if given another chance, son of Nerdanel?" she inquires, and only then does he realize this is all a test.

"I would do less harm, if I could," Amrod says, thinking wistfully of a world where he and Pityo had remained with their mother. "But not if it meant parting from my twin. Not if it meant sundering Ambarussa, as you have done so now."

"But have we?" comes the question, and the last of the smoke dissipates into cool, calm waters.

Nienna is gone, and Amrod stares into the water in wonder. The shimmering mirage of a hröa that could once have been his stares back, free of the scars he had long ago collected. Is this what he looked like before? In his later days he could scarcely remember, even with Amras' mostly unblemished figure as reference.

He reaches down to touch the pool of tears—and Amras' fëa, long-sundered from him in death, reaches back for the first time since they lay dying at Sirion.

* * *

Amras has never been alone. Even when he was a newborn babe, in the minutes between his birth and Amrod's, he had been surrounded by the rest of his family. Even when Amrod nearly burned on the ships, he had Maedhros there with him to grieve. Even when he had infiltrated Doriath in hopes of flirting with its prettiest marchwarden, and Amrod didn't want to put up with his twin's "romantic nonsense," Thennes had been there to flirt back. Even when he was alone, physically, Amrod was there with him in spirit, their fëar tied with a connection as strong as his marriage bond, stronger.

But now, that bond is gone, and Amras feels empty.

Death is _dark_. Amras cannot see, and this is worse even than the panic after the Nírnaeth, when he had lost an eye. There he had at least been able to squint out of the other eye, been able to see shapes, been able to grasp onto hope, however faint. Here, has not eyes to see; or, perhaps, there is nothing to see at all. He is not sure which terrifies him most.

He _hears_ , though. He hears whispers, too indistinct to make out; he hears the hiss of steel on steel; he hears footsteps, all around him, coming from every angle.

If he had his weapons—his bow, his sword, Thennes' daggers—he could fight back against these invisible assailants. But he has nothing, _is_ nothing, and the enemies never come. They linger on the periphery of his awareness, too distant to take action, too close to feel calm.

There is no time in death, not in a way Amras can understand. Is this how all fëar feel: untethered, forgotten? Or is it a punishment unique to him, to his brothers, his father, for their Oath?

Some part of him knows Maglor still lives. Some part of him knows Maedhros does not. Some part of him knows that Morgoth is defeated, the forests and plains he had grown to love ruined, the Valar triumphant. Amras does not know _how_ he knows this, but he does.

There are moments where Amras feels the scrape of a dagger on his arm, feels his own hand trembling, feels hot blood drip into his palm. These are the moments he forgets he is dead, and yearns for the escape death he hoped would give him.

But harming himself did not prevent him from harming others: they went to Sirion anyway, slew innocents there, lost themselves there. Amras is dead, and there is no escape here, not in this Void—if it is indeed the Void.

"Why those daggers?" comes a whisper, this one closer than the rest. "They were not thine."

Amras laughs, and is shocked to hear the sound. The air shifts around him—for there _is_ air, now, and his not-quite-lungs take a shaky breath—and he feels a presence, a being, a Power. A Vala.

He still cannot see, not even from his good eye. He shakes his head, uncertain if it will be his for much longer than it takes to answer the Vala, and replies in a voice that is smoother than he remembers, "They were _hers_."

"Did that make it better?" the Vala asks, and something about the honest curiosity with which the being speaks stirs a memory within Amras.

"Námo?" he asks, hesitant.

The Vala says nothing, waiting for an answer.

Amras sighs—an experiment in whether he is capable of such an action—and tries to remember the feeling. The pain that felt, for a moment, justified. The anger that felt, for a moment, like someone else's.

"She hated me. Hates me." He remembers her face, twisted in horror, in disgust. It had been _her_ people he slaughtered, her cousins and friends and lovers before him. "If it was her daggers—it was right for her to hate me. The hate I felt, for myself, could be hers. Could be justified."

"Mm," whispers the Vala. "But the tapestry of thy life would be incomplete without her, would it not? Thou canst not cut thyself away from her."

Amras feels cool fingers touch his cheek, caress his eyelids. He shudders, flinches away, eyes flying open—

And he can _see_ again, with both eyes: he beholds not Námo, but his wife. Vairë's robes shift, their array of colors spinning into familiar faces, into constellations, into sparks and tinder caught aflame. Her face is serene, kind, eyes fixed on him, even as her numberless arms twist and pull the threads of fate in a mesmerizing pattern.

"Is such hatred deserved?" Vairë asks softly. "From her? From thine own self?"

A heaviness weighs in Amras' chest, more solid than anything he has felt in his endless stay in Mandos, and he bows his head. "It was, lady."

"But _is_ it, even now, son of Fëanáro?"

At the sound of his father's name, he jerks his chin up, glaring. "You speak of him, after your husband damned him so?"

Vairë says nothing, her arms moving without regard to his words. She will not answer until answered in turn.

Amras growls. "It _is_ deserved," he spits out, the words bitter on his lips. "No matter what my father thought. I learned that the night Ambarussa nearly burned."

_Amrod_ , he remembers, his new-crafted heart panging. Deep inside he feels the flutter of a response: their bond, stirred to life?

"Wouldst thou change that hatred, son of Nerdanel?" Vairë asks. "Wouldst thou weave anew that thread of thy life?"

"In every heart, if I could," he admits, and at the words his fëa _burns_ , and he cries out, falling to his knees. Vairë vanishes, a shadow in her place, but Amras thinks he sees a light flickering within that endless dark, familiar as his own soul, tied to his fëa with thread unbroken.

"Ambarussa!" he cries, and reaches for that flame.

* * *

The vision before him is almost solid enough to be real. Shadows dance at the edge of the hall, lit by flickering torches; a throng of people stare up at him with mixed fear and awe; his brother stands at his shoulder, sure and steady and true as he always is. He is victorious, in control, triumphant.

But Curufin knows better. Though the vision, the feeling, is sharp and solid, he has repeated this cycle enough times to know—not _how_ it ends, but that it will not end the way it truly did.

This time, it is not until Orodreth turns them out that the change occurs. Sometimes it happens earlier, with Finrod rallying his people against them, or the witch Lúthien enspelling him, or Huan's first speech rebuking them.

This time, it is Celebrimbor.

The betrayal of his son is what hurts the most. Curufin is a man of steel and secrets, the dark shadow to Celegorm's brash boasts, and he holds his love close to his chest. There was a time when it was not so, when he was as free with affection as his father Fëanáro, loud in praise and quick to voice his pride, but that was before the Darkening, before the Oath, before Fëanáro burned. Before the blood and fire and death. He had not told his son he loved him in a long time.

Perhaps that is why his little Tyelpë repudiates him as the trembling king expels Celegorm and Curufin from Nargothrond. If he had expressed his affection, how much it meant that Tyelpë followed him, loved him, admired him even in these dark times—if he had done such things, perhaps then Celebrimbor would follow.

Tyelpë does not follow, but this time he does not stand aside, either. No, he blocks their path, tall as his uncle, the strength of a smith in his clenched fists.

"Adar," he growls, and Curufin flinches at the Sindarin term.

"Will you follow, yonya?" he demands in Quenya, sharper than he means, unable to hold in his fury. He is powerless to change the course of events, no matter what he does. "Or will you be as faithless to us as our cousins?"

"It is not Orodreth who has been faithless," Celebrimbor spits. "It is you, sending Finrod to his doom, putting your Oath above your own kin—"

Curufin lunges forward, grabbing him by the collar. For all he is a head and a half shorter than Tyelpë, this is his _son_ , and a son should not speak so to his father. Curufin tells him this in no uncertain terms, ending with a hiss of, "What would Fëanáro think of his only grandson forsaking his father?"

Celebrimbor shoves him away, ungentle. Oh, if only he would use that strength of his like Celegorm did, instead of channeling whatever pent-up anger he had into smithing!

"Yes, I forsake Fëanor," Celebrimbor declares, loud enough for the whole hall to hear. "I forsake him, and you, and your brothers also—I did not swear your Oath! I did not slay my own kin!"

"I am ashamed of you, Tyelperinquar," Curufin says, his voice deadly soft, despair in the pit of his stomach. The part of him that knows this is not how this happened, that he is dead, that this is a torment of Mandos, is sick with guilt—but most of him lives in this moment, rage clouding his judgement. "If you forsake me now, in my time of need, then you are no son of mine!"

Celebrimbor stares, impassive, and the rest of the crowd falls away. Even Celegorm, bristling at his shoulder, dissipates into a swirling mist, until the only figures that remain are himself and his son.

The grip of the vision loosens, and Curufin sways on trembling knees, or an approximation of them. He does not fall, not yet. That will come later, when Irmo is done playing with him for a time.

"Again, thou makest the same mistakes," says the Vala in the shape of his son. Celebrimbor blinks, and his eyes are a swirling mirage of colors; his smile is dreamlike, as Curufin has never seen it before.

Curufin chokes out a laugh. "You call them mistakes. It was the only option. _Is_ the only option."

"Thou and I both know that is a falsehood." Irmo shrugs, and the façade of familiarity falls away. He sheds Tyelpë's skin like it is a loose robe, his naked form pale and undefined, indistinct in the way that dreams are. Curufin forces himself to stare, knowing that fixing his gaze on any point of Irmo's fana is an exercise in futility. Lights dance beneath the surface of Irmo's visage, swirling rainbows pulsing in and out like the tide. But to look away is to admit defeat, and he is not yet so broken.

"I cannot change the past," Curufin says through gritted teeth. "I cannot change my nature. I cannot change who I am."

"Thou canst," Irmo says. "The past, no. The essence of thy fëa, no. But thy temperament? Thy stubbornness? These thou canst alter, in the here and now, son of Fëanáro."

"There is no here and now," Curufin scoffs. "You are everywhere at once, _lord_. I am untethered from time and place, confined in these halls as you are free to roam."

Irmo waves a hand, and the emptiness of their surroundings is lifted. Curufin hisses in a breath, as much as a dead man can, as he beholds the throng of fëar roaming the Halls, each lost in their own hellish torment.

But—no, he realizes, that is not what he sees. Some fëar are still as he, expressions blank, no doubt locked in a vision of their own, but many—most—wander freely, watching as tapestries weave themselves with Vairë's invisible hands. He catches a glimpse of a battle, mighty and terrible, with a figure in shining armor in the lead, the star of Fëanáro on his breastplate.

Curufin gapes, recognizing his son. "Tyelpë?" he whispers. "What is this? What does this mean?"

Irmo waves his hand again, and the veil returns, masking Curufin from the other spirits. "They call it the War of Wrath," he murmurs. "Thy son fought valiantly. He lives and will live yet, for an age or more."

Now Curufin _does_ fall to his knees, overcome. Tyelpë lives? Tyelpë will endure? And not only that, but he fights with the star of his father's father emblazoned on his chest, a promise that his House is capable of more than evil? After Sirion—somehow he knew about Sirion, as sure as he knew of Maedhros' fall into fire—he had not thought it possible. Surely, after the Kinslayings, he had thought Tyelpë would have cut out that part of himself entirely, more than he had even in Nargothrond.

"Wouldst thou like to try again, son of Nerdanel?" Irmo asks, and Curufin nods his assent.

* * *

He stands with a blade in his hand. The end of the blade is buried in the chest of a man, a man he had known for years, had trained in war, had respected, had _trusted_. But that trust had been betrayed, and now the price for such foolishness is paid as his warriors fall around him.

Ulfang the Black he is called in after days, and Caranthir forces his other names from his mind. He kicks the body of his once-ally aside, turning to face another enemy, but he knows the day is lost.

He did not know at what cost, not then. He knows now as he slays orc after orc, man after man, beast after beast. The movements are automatic as he loses himself in memory.

They lost the battle, lost their lands—all but _his_ , and those were diminished. Caranthir was forced to play host for his brothers, all six of them, all six insufferable, Oath-maddened brothers; this betrayal was almost greater than Ulfang's. He had prized his solitude in the east, while Maedhros and Maglor froze in the north, Celegorm and Curufin schemed in the west, Amrod and Amras...did whatever it was that they did. Now that was taken from him, and whatever irritable irrationality had been lurking within him came to the forefront of his actions.

He knows this isn't real, but the thought is not comforting. Because if it isn't real—if he is in truth dead, if this is a trick of the Fëanturi, if the madness lurking within him cannot be tamed even in Mandos—

He lets himself be consumed by the vision, even as it changes. It is better than the alternative.

This time it is a trade deal gone wrong, swords drawn on the Dwarf Road. He has few allies, after the Nírnaeth, but the Naugrim are not picky with their business partners. It seems they even make deals with the Enemy, and Caranthir finds himself betrayed again, surrounded by dwarvish warriors, his own company slain.

"You're worth more with your head on your shoulders," their leader gloats, and Caranthir remembers Maedhros' broken body, the haunted look in his eyes that was there even before he lost Fingon, and knows he would rather die than be taken captive.

He wasn't either, in the end: he goes wild, his vision stained red as the fury in his blood erupts and he fights his way out against a score of enemies who are far heartier than any orc. He is saved, drug back to Amon Ereb, by another dwarvish caravan; but even with their aid, that is the last time he trusts any of the Naugrim.

Caranthir has not trusted the Ainur since his father first began to speak against them. It had become an obsession of his, in the later days. He jumped at his own shadow, picked at his skin, half-convinced some vengeful spirit out of the West was haunting his steps, or some shade of Morgoth had infiltrated his castle.

In the end it _was_ an Ainu who did him in, or at least a man with Ainu magic in his veins: Dior Eluchíl, Melian's spawn, running him through with cold steel. And then came the voices, pulling his fëa from his broken body, calling him westward with a summons he was not strong enough to resist.

What torment, then! Death was what he feared most, for in death he faces _them_ : the Fëanturi, masters of spirits, makers of his doom.

"Thou crafted thine own doom," Námo booms around him, or at least Caranthir fears he does. He cannot tell what is real and what is false, anymore. He would rather suffer another vision of betrayal than face the Visionmaster himself.

Caranthir throws himself into another battle, this time with wraiths. He does not remember this from his lifetime; perhaps, then, it is real, and he fights with the Maiar of Mandos. Or perhaps it is a portent of his final judgement, for Námo has not brought justice upon the sons of Fëanáro, not yet. They are not cast into the Void to be forgotten alongside their father. Would such a punishment be better than _this_? Caranthir does not know—but he does not wish to find out, either.

The Maiar surround him, clutching at his arms, reaching for the heart beating inside his chest, the spark of life that is his fëa made manifest in this half-corporeal form. His beats them back with naught but his rage and fear, unable, unwilling to submit.

"This will not do," says a soft voice. "Please, release him."

At once the clinging hands cease their motion. The Maiar back away, and Caranthir curls into himself, the simulacrum of his hröa falling apart. That voice—that voice! It is worse, even, than the Maiar's searching grasp, for it belongs to a Vala. Caranthir dreads the Valar most of all, above even orcs and traitor-men, for he knows, deep down, that it is not they who forsook him, but _he_ who forsook _them_ , in taking the Oath, in turning his back upon Valinórë, in—

"Wilt thou not look at me?" that holy voice asks, sweet as honey. "I am here to aid thee. I can bring thee rest and respite, if thou wouldst let me."

Estë. They have sent the healer, since the judge and illusionist failed to break him utterly. Her soft words seep into him, making his spirit ache, but he resists the temptation to give up, give in. He will not give her the satisfaction of making him grovel.

"No," he growls, the blood-dark ink of his fëa struggling to take shape once more. He crafts an arm, then two; he has all four limbs, and even a head, and eyes with which to glare. He is a mass of flesh, but it is _his_ , not a thing granted to him by the Ainur.

Estë smiles even in the face of his ire. Her eyes are closed, and her hair wraps around her pale form in an approximation of a gown; she glows with an unearthly, holy light, and Caranthir flinches back in his too-slow body that is not and can never be a true hröa.

He feels a brush upon his soul. Estë reaches out, caresses his arm, and for a moment it looks like _his_ again: brown skin, freckled, reddened like it has been since birth. But he recoils from her touch, and the red-black of his spirit returns, like blood from a wound too deep to heal.

That is what he feels, and what he knows she can feel also: _pain_ , injury, that not even she can soothe. Estë frowns gently, and her fana changes: now she is not a half-comprehensible Valarin giant, but an elf. Her skin is the same soft brown as his own, her hair a muted red: she looks like Nerdanel, the mother he betrayed, green eyes hidden beneath closed lids and long lashes.

He laughs hollowly. "If this is meant to comfort me, it does not. She despises me, I am sure of it. She forsook us all."

"No, son of Fëanáro," Estë corrects. "Thee and thy brethren forsook _her_."

He hangs his head. "Yes," he admits. "We did."

He waits for her to ask if he would do it again, ready to spit back, _Yes, of course._ But the question does not come, and as she changes shape again, he wonders if he would have responded that way after all.

Now she is a dwarf, stocky and broad, beard the shape and color of clouds about to storm. Still her eyes are closed, but she sees him all the same, sees the core of him.

"You think because I was once friends with a number of the Naugrim, that I honor them still?" he demands. "Try again, lady."

He does not think she will, but she _does_ : now she is a mortal woman, wrinkled and battle-worn, hair cropped short above rounded ears. Her mouth splits into Haleth's grin, and Caranthir feels his self-wrought form melt back into nothingness. It is _her_ , the woman for whom he gambled everything, and lost—but without the twinkle in her eye, for this is still Estë, and still her eyes are closed.

"You are cruel," he whispers. "I have always known your kind to be so, but you are vicious even beyond my measure, to mock me so."

Estë sighs. "O son of Nerdanel!" she exclaims. "Will nothing comfort thee? I wish only to grant thee rest, with the familiar forms of thy fellow Children—is there nothing that will ease thy sorrow?"

"Nothing I have before known," he chokes out. "Not Vala, Maia, elf, or man; even the dwarves have had their share in my misery, in my many betrayals. How many times did I fail in my word? In the Oath, in a promise to Haleth, in my love to my mother, in coin with my friends, in faith to the Valar, in—"

He breaks off as she changes again, shrinking down into a figure even smaller than that a dwarf. He stares as a new being takes shape, like a man but not, feet broad and hairy, face round and gentle. This...this is a creature unlike any he had seen.

"What is this?" he asks, and his astonishment outweighs his fear.

"Hobbits, they call themselves," Estë says with fondness. "Little folk, with little worries, at least with to do with aught outside their homelands. Are they different enough for thee?"

Caranthir nods, and his curiosity is such that when Estë approaches, he lets her touch him, mold him back into the shape that was once his.

"I cannot help thee," the little hobbit-thing murmurs, patting him comfortingly on the back. "Thy healing shall not be accomplished by my kind. But there are others who can soothe thy broken heart, and if thou wilt listen..."

"Perhaps they may," he whispers, and a tear falls from his eye.

Estë smiles, her eyes fluttering open for half a heartbeat, and then she is gone.

* * *

Flesh is his weakness: it has always been, from a misspent youth hunting beasts in the woods of Oromë to the last moments of his life spent tearing guts from Dior's belly. But blood was not the only thing he lusted after, and flesh in its other forms is just as tempting, if not more so.

Celegorm has never been one to restrain his desires, not if the other party is willing; even when they are not, he will take matters into his own hand with them on his mind. He is as free with affection as he is with his anger, and only the Oath tipped the balance in favor of violence.

It is not the way things are done in Aman—at least, not openly—but even now, in Mandos, Celegorm refuses to feel shame for what pleasure he can wring in death. It is not the same, without a true body, only this shade of what he once was, but it is enough at least to be tempted.

The Valar are not all in perfect alignment about proper relations between the Elder Children. Námo, it seems, is more interested in identifying the fissures in Celegorm's fëa than he is in condemning them. And yet, he is not forthright with what he seeks: sometimes Celegorm relives Nargothrond, other times Doriath, yet other times the Oath or Alqualondë, or the fall of Himlad. There is no shortage of misery in Celegorm's storied life.

But he always returns to this: Celegorm pressed close to another, drawing moans from them, finding pleasure within them or they within him. Right now it is Aredhel, their last tryst before her disappearance, a fierce and wild coupling in the woods where Turgon's exodus is hidden. Celegorm knew she was leaving, though not to where, and tracked her hither—he would have tried his luck confronting Turgon with his nonsensical secrets, had she not caught him and tied him to a tree.

Aredhel was never one for sentimentality, but she took her time with him all the same, and truly he didn't mind. It was more frustrating that she left him there, bound for a full day before Huan wandered back to free him. By then the soon-to-be-Gondolindrim were long gone, and Celegorm would never see her again.

He doesn't mind reliving this, not at all. It is tinged with grief, in a way every memory of Beleriand is, and it is not as vivid as it was in life, but if this is his punishment, it is a sweet one.

When he is left panting and straining against his bonds, watching as Aredhel's white slip vanishes into the forest, the darkness closes in on him. Suddenly he is in a darkness of a different kind: Finrod's bedchamber, a flickering torch the only light by which to see the golden king writhing beneath him. He feels Curufin close by, watching, watching as he often does; the part of him that knows he is dead wonders if Námo judges him for that. _He_ does not; Curufin is of little interest, but they both enjoy Finrod.

The Nauglamír glints upon Finrod's otherwise-bare chest, and some animal rage builds within him. It is resplendent, like the Silmarils that ought to be his and his brothers', and for just a moment Celegorm is overtaken by the need to tear the necklace from Finrod's breast and claim it for his own.

But he resists, claiming Finrod's body instead, and laughs as he hears Curufin in the shadows muttering similar thoughts.

Then Finrod is gone, and Curufin also, but the bedchamber is the same: this time it is Lúthien who is tied up and gagged, and about to be blindfolded if she doesn't stop glaring at him enough to make his skin crawl. She's a witch, the brood of a Maia, and he wouldn't put it past her to curse him with only a glance.

He knows she won't come to him willingly, at least not now. He certainly won't force her, but neither will he stand aside and let her chase down his father's jewels. _His_ jewels. He makes no secret of his desire for her, flattering her, showing her just how much he wants her...and when her flinty gaze does not soften, he shrugs and departs for a moment, sure to let her know exactly who he shall be thinking of as he takes himself in hand.

She never did end up changing her mind, despite his obvious superiority to that scruffy mortal Beren, and all the more fool her—he outlived her long enough to face down her son in battle. Celegorm would have been willing to have Dior, also, if that would grant him the Silmaril. Though it was not only the Oath that drew him to Eluchíl, but his beauty, so like his mother and yet so unlike her. But it never went further than the offer, and Dior slid his blade between Celegorm's ribs before he could enter a sword of a different kind.

There are others, also; friends from his youth, warriors under his command, strangers at the Mereth Aderthad, captive enemies who think they can buy their freedom from him if they please him well enough. Strangely, the visions gloss over the nights he spent in Oromë's company, as if the Vala whose horn he once followed hid such dalliances from his fellows' view.

Again and again Celegorm relives these moments of intimacy, until he is sick of the sameness of it all. There is more to him than sinful pleasure, more to him than a desire for flesh, more to him than what the Vala who toys with him no doubt deems _wickedness_.

When the cycle begins anew, his lips about to press a first shy kiss to another boy, one of his father's apprentices, Celegorm draws back. The boy pouts, but his visage fragments and blinks out of existence. Now Celegorm is in Aredhel's embrace, but he stops himself before he strips her of her tunic. She pauses as she tugs at his breeches, and when Celegorm looks up, he sees an unfamiliar distance in her eyes. Then she, too, is gone, Finrod in her place with his mouth between his legs, and Celegorm pushes him off in disgust. This time it is Curufin who replaces him, and _that_ enrages him: he slaps his brother's hand away, spitting at the false memory, not waiting to see if there will be someone else to tempt him.

"Námo!" he cries. "Is this your idea of punishment? Or do you enjoy watching me in the throes of passion, if these half-memories count as that? What kind of sick bastard are you? Show yourself!"

A figure appears before him, a darkness hooded in an endless cloak, white hands of bone extended, stars swirling beneath his hood in a pattern almost resembling a smile that would be gentle if it could. Celegorm shivers: he had seen Námo before, in Valinórë, but rarely and always from a distance. Up close, he is at once menacing and kindly, and utterly unknowable.

"I am merely intrigued," Námo says in a dry whisper. "The heat of flesh is foreign to me, though it is not to all my brethren."

Celegorm thinks of Oromë, blood-drunk from a successful hunt, pinning him to the forest floor and rutting into him like an animal, and snorts. Either Námo cannot perceive his thoughts, or he cares not for Oromë's proclivities, for he says nothing.

"Is it foreign, or do you find it wicked?" Celegorm challenges. "Manwë is picky, I know, but _his_ judgement would be to punish me, or restrain me at the least. If you are to accuse me of wickedness, I would rather you be forthright. I am sick of you circling me like a buzzard, waiting for me to commit some final wrongdoing!"

Námo laughs, an airless sound consumed by the twinkling lights in his hood. His amusement barely registers within Celegorm, his fëa still burning with anger.

"Is desire truly my greatest sin?" Celegorm demands. "Kinslaying, kidnapping, king-killing—all that is fine, but love? Sex? Pleasure? _That_ is what you damn me for?"

Námo's laugh escapes his hood this time, and two pale glimmers of light flash in the darkness, almost like he blinked. "Thou art quick to judge, son of Fëanáro."

"Are _you_ not the judge?" Celegorm growls.

"I am," says Námo, and all hint of amusement dissipates. He is tall and imposing and light-consuming, looming over Celegorm. A retort dies in his throat, and he does his best not to quiver in fear.

"Son of Nerdanel, I have studied thee long enough," Námo intones. "Thy brothers have all begun to walk their path of restitution, but I did not judge thee ready. Until now."

"Maybe if you'd given me some better material to work with..." Celegorm mutters. He frowns. "Wait. My brothers? All of them? Even—Curvo?"

"Even he," Námo says solemnly. "Even Nelyafinwë, though his path is longer, more treacherous."

Fierce anger rushes through him. "Nelyo is the best of us," Celegorm growls. "Even after everything, even after _Sirion_ —"

"He is the most damaged," Námo murmurs.

Celegorm falls silent. "Will you...will you release us?" He has to know. In this state, consumed by visions, he has had little chance to interact with the other fëar in the Halls, especially with his brothers, but he knows many who fell in Beleriand—in what they call the First Age—have already been rehoused and sent back to the world of the living. He did not think he, Oathtaker and Kinslayer both, would have such a chance.

"That remains to be seen," Námo says. "My siblings and our spouses disagree."

"But you...?"

Námo folds his cloak around himself, shadows collapsing into each other until he is naught but a dark patch of endless sky. "That remains to be seen," he repeats, and disappears entirely.

* * *

It _hurts_.

It has always hurt, his fëa. He burned bright—brighter than his father, even, his mother would tease—but in the beginning, playing with that fire had been intoxicating. Fun. A game he was never worried about losing, not with so many people around him who loved him.

But one by one, they fell away each in their own fashion, until he was alone. In Angband; in Himring; in his grief; in his madness—even with Maglor there, forever by his side, in his shadow, Maedhros was alone with the pain. He could not let another in, even had he wanted to.

At the end—the very end—he had felt some relief. The Silmaril in his palm burned more even than the ragged, bleeding thing that was his spirit, and in that pain he knew clearly what he must do. It was simple, really; how had he not seen it before? Maedhros is a spirit of fire, like his father before him, and like Fëanáro, fate beckoned him toward the flame.

So he falls: lets the fire consume him, consume the jewel for which he wasted his life, consume the blood and guilt and the wreck of an elf he once had been.

He should have known better than to think this would bring him peace.

He is severed from his hröa, devoured by the chasm of flame, but the inner fire of his fëa still burns. With nothing to fence it in, he is uncontrolled, unconstrained, unconnected to any tether that might dull the pain. He cannot manifest even the ghost of a physical form; if he did, it would be a hideous, charred thing, worse even than the bloody orcish mess he had been after Angband.

Had he died then, would it have been better? Would he have been more whole, more himself? He is nothing now, nothing but fiery agony.

There are moments where the heat abates, where he feels some cool pressure from the hand of a gentle spirit. Perhaps it is a Vala: Námo, or Estë; whatever it is, it cannot calm him for long.

He feels hands mold him into something resembling a person. At first, he resists, and melts back into his state of flame; after a time he gives in, lets his soul be shaped.

But his fëa is not invested in healing, or in comfort: he knows he _deserves_ this, for all the blood he shed. There had been little hope in his heart to find rest in the afterlife: he knew exactly where the call would lead him, exactly what the Oath demanded from him. Perhaps he had held the Silmaril even as he perished, but the Oath was not fulfilled, not even for him.

And so when that cool and gentle spirit nudges him back into consciousness, into a shape with which he can sense more than just his pain and loathing, somehow the agony is even _worse_.

He is a trembling thing, skin red and raw and cracked, magma bubbling beneath the surface of gaping, bleeding wounds. He sobs, a wretched, broken sound. Coals scrape at his throat and fire spurts from his bruised lips; he has eyes, but they are melted shut. Oh, as a disembodied spirit he was at least _concentrated_ : this ache is unbearable, and he screams for release, for mercy.

There is another touch to his fëa, and he crumbles back into flame.

It happens again, and again, and again. Time is meaningless here, in the blackened Halls, and there is no sequence to the attempts at putting his broken spirit back together, at least not that he can comprehend. On one occasion he may rise, trembling, to toddling feet; on another even the slightest channeling of his spirit is unbearable.

But then he hears a voice, alien and yet striking him to the core, and something inside him wakes up.

"Nelyafinwë," the voice begs as he struggles to remember his mother-language, "Nelyafinwë, please. Let them help you."

He doesn't know who speaks, only that it is gentle, and loving, and somehow in harmony with his soul, and he remembers that he is part of the Song, also.

That is enough. What was lost in him is found, what slept is awakened, and Maedhros for the first time reaches back toward those cool hands and works with them.

He can see, now: pale skin criss-crossed with scars, the stump of an arm, a ragged strand of dark red hair. Yes, this is who he is—who he _was_ , at least. It will do, for now.

The presence around him makes itself manifest, and it is not one Vala but many: the Fëanturi, their wives, their sister, all united in song and craft, working to make him whole. Maedhros is bewildered—why go to all this trouble for him, a Kinslayer, an Oathbreaker, a self-slain soul?

"Because," they say as one, "thou art Eru's child, and we are his children also."

He does not understand, but he feels for the first time a brush of love against his soul so powerful that he knows it can be only from the One.

The dead do not sleep, nor do they dream. But the being that is the Fëanturi grants him rest, and for the first time he can remember, the weight of guilt is entirely lifted from his soul.

When he is lulled out of this state, an indeterminable time later, he is greeted by the sight of his own face in a mirror made of tears. The Fëanturi washes him like they would a babe, and he weeps in rhythm with them. Each gentle brush upon the manifestation of his fëa wipes away a scar, a hurt, a trauma, or at least allows it to fade. Maedhros is baptized in a mirage of fire and water and his own blood, and when he rises, gasping, to the surface, he sees, feels, _knows_ himself renewed.

Maedhros trembles. His skin is pink and raw, he is still missing his hand, and the ache of his griefs remains within him, but he is at last present in his own mind.

He looks up at the incomprehensible being before him, the spirit that is five mighty Valar in one. In his own malleable state, the Fëanturi did not disturb him, but now that he has form once more he is dizzy at the sight.

The cool hands caress him one last time, and the Fëanturi shift and blur, their fëar separating into individual fana. There is Námo, and Irmo, and Nienna, and Estë, and Vairë: each smiling in their own peculiar way, and Maedhros believes again that the Valar love him, as he had not thought since long before his father led him into the east.

"Thank you," he rasps. "I do not deserve such grace."

"Thou dost," says Námo, stars dancing within the endless void of his hood. "We hath judged thee penitent. There is naught we can do to punish thee, for thou hast suffered enough in thine own fëa."

Maedhros bows his head. He cannot agree, but he has always been one to fight for every chance at victory, and so he says nothing.

Nienna's innumerable eyes weep innumerable tears. "Thy grief is greater than almost any other," she whispers. "We would see thee whole again."

Irmo reaches into Maedhros' mind and he gasps: a vision of Aman is before him, bright and beautiful, with five brothers at his side. It fades as quickly as it comes, but hope sparks within him.

"We would see thee and thine reborn," Irmo says.

"Hmm," hums Vairë, her hands never ceasing in their weaving. "Thy grandmother would be glad to greet thee for the first time. It is her pleading that softens my heart to thee, her perspective on thy storied history that gives me pause in condemnation."

Estë smiles, shifting form and multiplying, until Maedhros beholds all his brothers save Maglor, each with their eyes closed. "We, too, have been healing," they speak in eerie unison. "We are nearly ready to try again, if thou art."

Maedhros shivers, falling backward as panic rises in his throat. Too many times such a trick had been played on him, with better detail, and to him illusion is worse than any other torment. "No," he cries, "you lie! We are damned, condemned by our own Oath, bound to our father, doomed to everlasting darkness, to the Void—"

Estë's smile gentles into a frown, and she folds back in on herself until she is a slender maiden once more. "It is no lie," she murmurs. "We speak the truth. Wouldst thou rather hear it from thy kin?"

Irmo draws his wife near. "My lady is not the Deceiver," he assures. "Sauron is fallen, utterly defeated."

"Behold!" exclaims Vairë, pulling a tapestry out of thin air. Maedhros gapes as he sees the Úmaia, blackened and hideous, screaming as a dark tower collapses around him. He sees a volcano, an echo of the flame in which he himself perished, consuming a golden ring; he sees a small creature like a mortal man, but not, dangling above that fire—only this person was held up by another, and not abandoned by his Maglor. No, no, it was Maedhros who had left Maglor, not the other way around, but he—

His guilt is interrupted by Vairë's voice: "The Eldar are returning to Aman, and more fëar than ever desire to leave these Halls. Wilt thou be among them, son of Fëanáro? Thy beloved Findekáno has already stepped foot in the glory of Aman once more."

Maedhros blinks up at her in awe. Fingon! He could be with Fingon again, this time without the threat of warring houses or warring armies to separate them! There would be no Enemy, no Doom, no Oath—

A chill settles over him as he remembers what he swore. No, even with Þauron and Morgoth fallen, the Oath is unfulfilled.

"What of the Oath?" he whispers. "Are we not yet bound to it, and doomed to darkness as we swore?"

"Manwë and Varda absolve thee of thine Oath," Námo proclaims. "We have relayed thy remorse to them, and since thou swore in their names, they saw it fitting to release thee of thy punishment."

Maedhros shakes his head. Free? Reborn? Given a second chance? He had not imagined such a thing possible!

"And my brothers?" he whispers.

"Ask them thyself, son of Nerdanel," says Estë with a wave of her delicate hand, and five néri appear before him.

Maedhros weeps to see them, to feel the rush of joy in each of their fëar. The twins are hand in hand, clutching each other tightly as if they will never let go; Maedhros cannot imagine the torment it must have been if they were separated in the Halls. Curufin and Celegorm cry out to see each other and embrace, and somehow Maedhros knows that while they are not always together, this is not the first time since their deaths that they have been permitted to meet. Caranthir's head is buried in his knees, curled up on the ground, but as soon as he is aware of his brothers he lifts his face and beams a bright smile Maedhros had only ever seen a handful of times, and even less after that hand was lost.

"Nelyo!" he cries, and in an instant all five of them descend upon him, sweeping him into an embrace, and Maedhros is overwhelmed by the love and relief in their souls, magnified by each others' presence.

Here at last he knows that the Fëanturi are right: his brothers are healing, repenting, and wonder of wonders! so is he.

"We can be free," babbles Curufin, "I can see Tyelpë again—"

"Reborn, and running beneath the Sun!" exclaims Amrod.

"And the Moon," adds Amras with shining eyes.

"And the stars! Ai, Elbereth!" Celegorm rejoices. "She finds us repentant, and Manwë also—do you think Oromë shall forgive me, too?"

Caranthir buries his face in Maedhros' fiery curls. "We can be a family again," he says hoarsely. "We can be with our mother."

"What about Maglor?" Maedhros asks. Their second brother is conspicuously absent, and mixed hope and dread coils in his belly.

"He is not here," Námo informs them. "He yet lives, and thus his fëa is not mine to judge."

"We'll meet him again," Celegorm assures Maedhros. "I know we will. But we can't do it here, not if we're dead."

"Can we leave, Nelyo?" Amrod asks, pleading. "Please?"

Maedhros takes a deep breath, or the ghost of one, for they are not living yet. So soon reunited with his little brothers, and again he falls into the role of leader and guide! A smile graces his lips, the first since his death, and he kisses Caranthir's head, seeking each of his brother's gazes in turn.

"This...can be different," he says, more to himself than to them. "There will be no evil, this time. We will take it out of ourselves, and reassemble who we are."

"Thou art already on this path, sons of Fëanáro," Nienna sighs.

"And—" Maedhros hesitates before asking, glancing to Curufin. "What of our father, Fëanáro himself?"

The Fëanturi still; even Vairë pauses briefly in her endless weaving.

"His fëa is bound to the Silmarilli," Námo intones. "With them yet lost, there is not enough of him to reassemble, as thou saidst."

Curufin flinches, and a pit opens in Maedhros' stomach. He nods; he had been expecting such news, though its arrival still strikes him like a blow.

"And what is left of him is not sufficiently repentant," Vairë says, pulling fiercely on a strand of red thread. "He resists our ministrations, even still."

"But he came to me," Maedhros realizes, remembering at last the voice that begged him to let the Fëanturi heal him. "He trusts you enough to put me in your hands."

"He loves thee," Irmo murmurs. "Each of thee. Even in his pride, he would not see thee suffer."

"He wants thee to be healed, and to return without him," Estë says.

Curufin is weeping, and the Ambarussa also; Maedhros takes Celegorm's hand and squeezes it, his other arm still wrapped firmly around Caranthir.

"May we see him?" he asks.

"Perhaps," Námo says, and the Fëanturi begin to fade away, their fëar drifting to other parts of the Halls to comfort other lost souls.

"Where are you going?" cries Caranthir. "Where are _we_ going?"

The other Valar fade, but Námo lingers, the shadows of his robes stretching out into the darkness of the Halls. "Thou art not ready for re-embodiment, not _yet_ ," he says. "Be with one another, and prepare thyselves to greet those whom ye left. Thine isolation is ended, and before thou shalt return to life, thou must grapple with death as all spirits must."

"But—" Curufin protests, too late. Námo vanishes, and the six brothers are left alone, huddling together like they had as children.

Maedhros' eyes widen as he sees tapestries unfurl, lining the endless walls. They depict all the history of Arda, from times he has heard of only in legends, to the endless wars of Beleriand through which he lived, to the wondrous adventures of those little not-quite-men which he had seen in Vairë's tapestry of Þauron's fall. He can hear other spirits now, murmuring just out of sight; he wonders if he will meet them, some day, before he is permitted to leave.

"It seems we are no longer receiving special treatment," drawls Caranthir.

"Nelyo?" Amras asks.

"Mm?" Maedhros replies, suddenly overcome with how _grateful_ he is to be with his brothers once more—and to have the chance to be with Fingon again, perhaps, in the not-so-impossibly-distant future.

"If...when we are reborn," Amras says slowly, "what will those we wronged think? How will we face them? Mother, our cousins, those who died on the Ice or at the Kinslayings—"

"Can we not have a moment of happiness together?" Celegorm exclaims, shoving him none too gently.

"Shut up, he's right," Curufin says, kicking Celegorm. "Nelyo...we'll be going back without Atya. Without Kano. And there are many who, even with the healing received in Mandos—by both us and them—will despise us."

Maedhros sighs, not for the last time, he is sure of it. "We will face those problems as they come," he says evenly. "We are the sons of Fëanor; nothing but ourselves has ever stopped us before."

Caranthir snorts, while Celegorm, clearly remembering how Maedhros died, looks at him with something between horror and amusement.

"Don't say _We're in it together_ ," Curufin groans. "That did not work last time, or we would not be in this situation."

"Being apart didn't help, either," Amrod points out. "You could have benefitted by having Kano or Nelyo, or Námo's balls, even _us_ , when everything in Nargothrond—"

Surprisingly, it's Caranthir who kicks him. "We are _in Námo's Halls_ ," he hisses. "Watch your language—I do not wish to spend a second longer than necessary in this blasted Ainur-infested place!"

Maedhros laughs, and his fëa lifts as he thinks, _That shall not be the last time I am caught in mirth, either._ He had been devoid of hope, consumed by pain, when he last laughed, casting himself into the pit of molten fire; but he is here now, with his brothers, his spirit so light he could fly.

" _Yes_ , together," he affirms, ignoring Curufin's rolling eyes. "It is how we are. We can do this, the way we always do things."

**Author's Note:**

> From Curvo's section, some little translations: "Adar" is Sindarin for "father"; "yonya" is Quenya for "my son"  
> re: Maedhros burning "brighter than his father": see [this post](https://arofili.tumblr.com/post/182994982187/piyo13sdoodles-and-maidros-tall-the-eldest)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed! And check out the story for which this is a prequel, [ATATYA](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20398906/chapters/48384556), to find out what happens when the Fëanorians are reborn :)  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).


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